


What He Kept

by sammichgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Bond, Gen, Sam POV, mentions of family, mentions of friends, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 01:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4202745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammichgirl/pseuds/sammichgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What are some of the things Sam's kept through his life - and why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What He Kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nishka Wolf (NishkaGray)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/gifts).



> This is a belated birthday ficlet for my dear Nishka, who wondered after 10.17: Inside Man, what if Sam had kept Bobby's ballcap? What else might he have kept over the years from others? Why would he keep these things?
> 
> Also posted for the SPN Hiatus Creations | Week Four (Sam Winchester) on tumblr.

Salting and burning something from someone a part of you had deeply loved was painful, and never got any easier. Knowing Dean was watching him to make sure he did it, well, it rankled him.

  
He’d gotten sloppy, or in his reawakened grief, just too careless. They knew the flask was what tied Bobby to them before. Watching the flask melt should have been the end of it. Was the end of it, in Sam’s mind. There was no risk in this one.

  
Except Dean had found a tattered old ballcap Sam had sneakily kept from an unexpected reunion with Bobby. And no matter the argument Sam tried – Bobby was in heaven, dammit, he couldn’t be a ghost, Dean wouldn’t listen.

  
The cap should have been stashed in the false bottom of Sam’s duffel. He’d spent a lifetime of keeping such small secrets – and sure, on a deep level he knew they were secrets that could have gotten him and his brother killed, even with precautions he took.

  
The thing was, when Sam gave his heart to family, friend or lover, he was all in, and had a habit of not being able to really let go. Their life was hard. Mementos were touchstones. Sometimes he needed those physical reminders of love, of kindness, of being in someone’s life. The mind was a funny place and being able to see and touch, they helped center and ground him.

  
His collection was small. He’d learned how to hide things in his bags at an early age, watching his dad and his big brother. There wasn’t a lot of room for him to store keepsakes. He was clever and quick and knowing how to work the innocence assumed of him, he’d never been found out.

  
The first thing he ever kept was from his freshman English teacher, Mr. Wyatt. Mr. Wyatt hadn’t really earned Sam’s heart so much as his trust and admiration, being open and honest with him, showing him the possibilities of making his own decisions, forging his own path. He’d kept a monogrammed pen of his, swiped off his desk the day they left Truman High.

  
A year later, he’d met Amy Pond. It was bittersweet, their meeting and farewell, and he’d managed to snag a button from her bookbag. Silly really, the blue Furby pin, but it was hers, and it made him smile, remembering their kiss.

  
Then there was the simple elastic hair tie of Jess’. Fawn colored, stretched from use, she’d always worn it around her wrist in case she needed to pull her radiant golden tresses off her neck and out of her eyes. Sometimes Sam would help her make a messy ponytail or bun, and they’d laugh as he’d forget strands he’d later sweep away as kisses were rained down over her face.

  
He’d never thought he’d have to store something of his dad’s. While hunting as they did meant a shorter lifespan than most, Sam had never really thought his dad was mortal. Call it a child’s veil of innocence, but it was his dad. And Dean had built the pyre himself, holding onto the dog tags until they were too hot to handle so close to the fire. Sam had managed to save the ball chain they’d been on though, and he still let his fingers dance over it in times of trouble, almost like praying over a rosary.

  
Worn thin from lying flat at the bottom of the duffel is an ecru colored pillowcase. The soft sateen finish has lost its sheen, but Sam can feel Madison against him like silk whenever he holds it to his cheek, can almost smell the spicy sweetness of her cinnamon and vanilla scented hair.

  
One of the quirkiest things he’s kept is a keyboard letter. It’s the letter C, and he can hear Ash in his head saying, “C for compadre, my man.” It’s a bit charred around the edges, but he managed to salvage it from the wreck of a laptop Dean had taken from the ruins of the Roadhouse. He’d tried popping it onto any new laptop he gets, but it never quite sits right, so it stays safe with the other items.

  
There isn’t anything of Ellen and Jo’s he managed to keep. Jo’s knife was too big, as was Ellen’s gun. All he has left is a group picture of them with him and Dean, Bobby and Castiel. It’s a sad picture, and it hurts to look at, but it also gives him strength, hearing Ellen’s motherly voice reminding Dean to kick it in the ass.

  
Taking something to remember Amelia didn’t even hit his radar. Not really. He supposes he should feel a twinge of guilt about that, but he really doesn’t. She was never his, as much as he was never hers. They were each other’s ports in a storm, and while he truly cared for her, the heartache healed into a memory that seemed just a rose-colored fantasy. Riot’s collar on the other hand, that he took. The dog had saved his life. Truly, him hitting Riot had been traumatic, but had also pulled Sam back from the brink of imminent death as he focused on the hurt animal instead of his spiral ever downward in the grief of losing his brother, of everything he had left.

  
Finding Sarah again, after so many years, his worry and concern, their all-out pre-emptive warding to keep her safe, and they’d brought the danger to her, simply by arriving to try and protect her. As Dean had tried to clean up the apartment, Sam had snatched her lip gloss, the tube and shade familiar. It was only after they’d returned to the bunker that he could compare, and yes, it was the exact same as she’d worn over seven years ago. If he occasionally put a small bit on from time to time, to remember the release his heart had felt at opening up, at letting someone in, it was no business of anyone’s. The slight stickiness brought back memories of a deep sweet kiss, luminous eyes, a little spitfire of a woman who could hold her own in intelligent conversation and sass, and was funny and compassionate to boot.

  
The most important thing he carried though, wasn’t found in the duffel. It wasn’t anything material, and it was something he’d thought time and again he’d lost. That wasn’t ever truly possible but again, the mind is a funny place.

  
It was a gift he’d been given as a baby, and even through his childhood, he knew how precious it was. How precious and amazing it is even today, even scarred and battered and bruised.

  
It was how he learned to never let go. It was why touch was so damn important. That reassurance of feeling something tangible, in knowing the ones you love aren’t ever truly gone.

  
It is the deepest secret nobody knows. He carries his brother’s heart. He carries it in his heart.

 

_(credit for the last few lines from[this](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/179622\))_ poem) 


End file.
